I Haven't Got the Legs for Dancing

I've been asked to explain this on more than one occasion, often in a Yuletide forum by relatives who want only what's best for me. These questions are presented with a roll of the eye or an unassuming furrowed brow and often contain the words "what," "in," "the," and "hell." Each time the question is posed, the more difficult I find it to answer. As time passes, the reasoning that once seemed so black and white morphs more and more into a menagerie of Freudian color and malformations, looking less like the once straightforward presentation and more like the aftermath of a drunken war of paintbrushes between Pollock and Neiman.

When I was a child, the stories were necessary as an escape from the anything-but-civil war taking place in my house. But now, as an adult, that excuse, much like the ones used to justify biting my sister, no longer exists. So, why keep writing? Because the stories keep coming, whether I want them to or not. Sometimes they'll wake me from a PG-13 dream (rated so as it contained the occasional profanity) with a far from gentle nudge to my shoulder. "Hey, wake up! I just thought of a good story. Listen, listen. Okay, there's this guy… you following me, so far?" I may resent these at first, but getting it out on paper, in the end, is as thrilling an accomplishment for me as the mad scientist realizing his dream to create the ultimate death ray that will enslave mankind.

Another reason, though, one just as important in my book (even that one's unpublished) is to entertain. Not just myself, but anyone who will read (which, as it currently stands, are friends and the occasional editor or literary agent wanting me to lose their address in the future). I am not so narcissistic to think I can change the world via my prose. All I want is to make people smile before they return to their passionless jobs or turn on the evening news to find out the world still spins in a downward spiral. Too many writers I've met set out with the intention of making a profound statement, of being seen as an intellectual commentator wishing to open the eyes of their fellow man. That sort of writing has its place, definitely, but can also be saturated and senseless if too many voices at once scream for the Pulitzer to look their way. My belief is much simpler. As said in the Preston Sturges film "Sullivan's Travels": "A lot can be said for making people laugh. Do you know that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan."

Another driving force, arguably the most selfish of all, is the fear of death. The fear of being forgotten like Alice Gilkey (1887-1935). Who? Exactly. One story published is forever available to future readers or seekers of the obscure and mediocre. To entertain is one thing, to entertain from beyond the confines of time and space is magical. The thought of someone enjoying reading that which I enjoyed writing is a beautiful one.

If the reason I write was on trial for murder and my argument determined its fate, its last words may very well be, "Did the governor call?" I'm not sure whether I could convince anyone that my reasons for writing are just. If I could, I wouldn't question it myself every night before falling asleep. Maybe the question itself is unanswerable in a way that would convert nay-sayers and left brainers to be in unanimous agreement with respect to my literary pursuits. Perhaps, no one argument is enough, just as a thousand answers may be too few. So, perhaps I have wasted the reader's time, for which I apologize, but it cannot be said that my efforts were insincere. Again, why do I write? I write because… well, because I'm a writer.

Despite birth control pills, I was born in 1972 in Southern California to a man and woman who I would later refer to as Mom and Dad. From the beginning, I had an overactive imagination that kept me entertained (and out of the way) for hours on end. At the age of four, I wrote my first book, Tommy and His Pet Mouse, filled with nonsensical drawings and dialogue that made the plot even more indecipherable. Eventually, I went on to study Literature and Film at Northridge State. With this to my credit, I was immediately propelled into entry-level positions in the retail industry.

My influences range from Mark Twain and James Thurber to Groucho Marx and Preston Sturges. Despite the vocalized protests of relatives I visit for the holidays, this is my chosen career. I do it because I love it and because the stories won’t stop coming. To find an agent who believes in me as much as I do myself would allow me the moniker of "Most Excited Ever" (except maybe for this little boy I saw in the park, the other day, who found a quarter on the grass. He was really excited!).